"Remember the price of failure," said my enemy in a low voice.
I was outside on the steps. I beckoned to Poirot. He hastened across.
"Aha! So all is well with you, my friend. I was beginning to be anxious. You managed to get inside? Is the house empty, then?"
"Yes," I said, in a voice I strove to make natural. "There must be a secret way out of it somewhere. Come in and let us look for it."
I stepped back across the threshold. In all innocence Poirot prepared to follow me.
And then something seemed to snap in my head. I saw only too clearly the part I was playing—the part of Judas.
"Back, Poirot!" I cried. "Back for your life. It's a trap. Never mind me. Get away at once."
Even as I spoke—or rather shouted my warning hands gripped me like a vice. One of the Chinese servants sprang past me to grab Poirot.
I saw the latter spring back, his arm raised, then suddenly a dense volume of smoke was rising round me, choking me—killing me—
I felt myself falling—suffocating—this was death—